


His Return...

by WritingQuill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, written pre-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is having a perfectly fine (dull) evening, until the doorbell rings and his life it turned upside down once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Return...

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally supposed to be for he Mini-Bang, but sadly we were a bit late. Still! There is the fic and there is the art, so it's all good. 
> 
> Anyway, Kaycee ([sad-girl-who-lost-her-rocket](http://sad-girl-who-lost-her-rocket.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) drew [this awesome comic](http://sad-girl-who-lost-her-rocket.tumblr.com/post/72885846548/inspired-by-my-partner-bagginswatsons-short-story) for this fic! It's brilliant, and I'm thrilled to share this work with you guys! 
> 
> P.S.: I apologise for the lame title n.n

It was six o’clock, and the room would have been pitch black dark had it not been for the street lamps casting a pathetic light through the half-heartedly curtained windows, creating despondent shadows that ran across the floors like the ghosts of lives past. The fake Christmas tree in a corner loomed over the rest of the room, intimidating in its grandeur, and John instantly regretted allowing Mary to trick him into thinking he was ready for Christmas. It’d been three years, and John didn’t think he’d ever be ready. Not for thiS, anyway… 

John felt himself come to slowly. He’d been asleep for longer than he’d hoped, and he’d lost most of his day. To be quite honest, the holidays always brought him down. During the rest of the year, it was easy to function normally, happily even, with Sherlock only popping on his mind sporadically, only a few times a day, and it was never quite so painful. When Christmas came around, though, it felt like he was standing on the street, looking up at the roof of St Bart’s all over again. Something about the jolliness and cheer made him sad and angry. All the thoughts of violin music and antler hats and moaning mobile phones and sock indices came flooding back. 

He looked at his watch and groaned. Mary was supposed to arrive soon, but John hadn’t even tidied up yet. Letting out a low curse, John stood up and walked to the kitchen to make some tea. Mr Hudson was at her sister’s, so the building was eerily quiet, the sounds were of the wooden structure settling and the kettle boiling. 

John made his tea quickly — finally rid of the habit of making two cups — and within five minutes, he was sitting on his chair, sipping Ear Grey (splash of milk, no sugar) carefully from his RAMC mug, and it all almost felt normal. 

The doorbell rang downstairs. John looked around confused. It was still too early for Mary to have arrived, and she had a key anyway. 

So John stood up and went to get the door. He thought about digging his Sig Sauer from where he’d hidden it (in a box under the bed — admittedly not the most inspired of hiding spots, though Sherlock always said that plain sight was the best place to hide), but realising that it was all remnants of paranoia, he simply walked straight down the seventeen steps towards the door. 

 

What expected John on the other side made his heart race, his breath catch, and he suddenly felt faint. 

‘No,’ he whispered, staring right into those eyes he had never expected to see again. 

Sherlock Holmes was standing on the stoop, his eyes were dark, mostly hidden by curls of shaggy dark brown hair, and surrounded by dark circles. His lips were chapped and pursed, and it seemed as if he was holding his breath, waiting for something to happen. John noticed all that in two seconds, and spent the rest of a minute trying to make sense of the fact that his dead best friend was standing in a very un-dead fashion on the street, staring up at him expectantly. 

‘John, I—‘ 

‘You’re dead.’ 

‘No, I’m—‘ 

‘We buried you. I visit your gravestone. You’re dead,’ John said, though he was mostly trying to convince himself he wasn’t going crazy. His mind felt fuzzy and his throat felt dry. 

Sherlock (or at least what John hoped was Sherlock and not a figment of his tortured imagination) walked up one step and moved to touch John’s arm. John, struck by the reality of Sherlock’s touch, stumbled backwards and, having tripped over his own feet, and fell on the steps of the staircase, landing on his bum. Wide-eyed, John simply stared down at his the place on his arm where Sherlock’s hand had barely touched. 

Moments of silence stretched before them, Sherlock staring at John longingly, and John staring at the ghost of his dead best friend, wide-eyed and shivering. Sherlock walked slowly into the building and closed the door behind himself, then unbuttoned his coat — the Belstaff, and the most ridiculous part of John’s brain was wondering how he’d got the coat back since Mycroft had taken it with him, though perhaps he’d known it was all a lie all along — and leant against the wall, facing the opposite side of the room. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was like thunder, and John felt shivers going down his spine. 

‘It was for your protection.’ 

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ 

‘I was hoping it would. But I was also expecting you to punch me.’ 

‘Yes, well, that might still happen.’ 

John stood up on wobbly legs and climbed up the stairs carefully. Sherlock followed not far behind, his steps seemingly sullen, slow and deliberate, as if to not startle John. As they reached the door to flat B, the silence continued, as if a blanket over them, and the tension hung heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe to both John and Sherlock. They moved almost automatically to sit on their usual chairs. 

John almost laughed at the thought of their “usual chairs”. It’d been so long since the leather one welcomed her original occupant, and yet it felt natural. As natural as sitting across from your formerly dead best friend could be, anyway. 

An hour of just staring at each other must have passed, because soon they heard the door open and close downstairs followed by the sound of steps climbing up the stairs. John winced. Right, Mary. That was going to be hard to explain. 

‘Sorry, I’m late, there was—‘ she stopped abruptly as she closed the door behind her. Mary studied the room, her eyes landing on Sherlock, whose face she knew very well indeed. ‘John?’ she asked, her voice faltering. ‘This is…’ 

‘Yes,’ he said, not really able to bring himself to say the name yet. Once he said it, everything would be too real. 

‘Right,’ she turned to face Sherlock with a frown. ‘Hello.’ 

Sherlock didn’t reply, only looked around the room as if studying it, and John simply stared at the space between Mary and Sherlock. He had completely forgotten about her when he opened the door to find Sherlock, and now he felt guilty. Mary was important, and he loved her. He was happy. He’d been happy, finally happy, after so long. But now, staring into Sherlock’s face, having him actually there, flesh and bone, real, John couldn’t help but feel his chest grow warmer than it had been in three years — something had blossomed again inside him, and yet his mind was spiralling with thoughts of grief and solitude, of the memories of seeing Sherlock jump. Conflicting feelings filled John’s brain, all the while the guilt of forgetting about Mary pooled in his heart. 

John looked over to where Mary was standing by the door. She was wearing a dark blue dress with a delicate flower print, cream-coloured cardigan, dark maroon tights and light brown flat riding boots. Her blonde hair was curled softly and half-pulled back by those pin things John didn’t know the name of but always managed to find scattered all around his flat ever since he started dating Mary. She looked lovely, which made him even guiltier. Her winter coat (a long beige pea coat) and maroon scarf were hanging from one arm as she looked wide-eyed at Sherlock. 

‘Mary, I—‘ but she started moving before John could finish — even though he wasn’t even sure what to say — and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting, raised her arm and slapped him in the face. Sherlock looked at her with shocked eyes, rubbing his cheek with the most surprised expression John had ever seen on his face. Had the situation not been so tense, John would have laughed. Now, however, he could only look at his girlfriend with a newfound profound respect, and a little bit of fear of the damage those small hands could cause. 

‘You probably need some time alone,’ she said sternly. ‘I’ll go to the shops get something to eat.’ She turned back to Sherlock and all but snarled. ‘You better have a good excuse.’ Then she left, putting on her coat and scarf on the way to the door, where she picked up her bag and walked out. 

‘I can see why you keep her around,’ Sherlock said after the door closed. John sighed. 

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How was this for my protection?’ 

‘John…’ 

‘No, seriously. I need to know, because watching you kill yourself, Sherlock, was worse than getting shot in the shoulder. I couldn’t—‘ 

‘Moriarty had three snipers. Three bullets. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you.’ 

Then he began explaining. He talked and talked about Kitty Riley and Rich Brook, he explained how he had found out what the last piece of Moriarty’s Great Game was, went on about the Final Problem, and how he had to solve it by jumping, how it’d been the only solution. Sherlock told John that Molly knew and Mycroft knew, that they helped him survive the fall and dismantle Moriarty’s web until it was safe enough to return. He had gotten to two of the snipers already, and there was only only one left. Sherlock sighed and his head hung heavy as he told John about Sebastian Moran, how hard he was to find, how he was Moriarty’s second in command. It was the last piece of the puzzle, the last piece he needed to destroy before he could live again. 

‘He still has his contract up, and he means to kill you. I cannot let that happen, John. But for my plan to work, I need your help.’ 

John took a moment to think it all over, it was a bit overwhelming. There was a buzz in his pocket, and he checked his phone to see that Mary had sent a text: 

_I’ll go to my place tonight. You need to talk to Sherlock so take your time. Love you x_

He smiled besides himself and nodded promptly. Hearing that story, John was overflowing with different feelings. Sherlock would probably scoff at the sentiment, but it didn’t matter. John was happy and sad and angry and annoyed, and he didn’t understand why Sherlock couldn’t trust him with that secret. He said so to Sherlock, who stippled his hands before his mouth and took a deep breath. 

‘I needed you to grieve in order to make my death believable. It was the only way, I swear. Had there been another way, I would have told you, but I was out of options, and saving your life was a priority.’ 

A beep from his watch made John realised it had just turned midnight. Looking into his friend’s haggard face, John made a decision. He needed time to think without Sherlock staring at him, and Sherlock needed some rest. 

‘You should spend the night here. I’ll get the downstairs bedroom ready.’ In silence and efficiently, John put new sheets on the bed and got Sherlock some a T-shirt and boxers to wear to sleep. Sherlock seemed stunned that John was going to let him sleep in his flat, but even though John’s emotions were conflicting with regards to what Sherlock had done, he knew for sure he was not ready to see him go again. 

Twenty minutes later, John left Sherlock in his old bedroom, and then moved to his own (and Mary’s, he supposed) upstairs. 

John lay down on his bed staring at the ceiling. Now that he had some time to think about things by himself, he didn’t know what to think. His mind was all over the place. 

Sherlock was back.

Sherlock was alive. 

He had lied to protect John, sure, but he had lied. And it had hurt. Still hurt, even after all the therapy and meeting Mary. He had finally started to move on and now… 

With a sigh, John twisted into a foetal shape, resting his cheek atop his steepled hands on the pillow. The sheets smelt slightly of vanilla and odourless hand cream, all Mary. It was a comforting scent. 

John’s eyelids began to droop as he fell asleep. 

He still wasn’t sure how to feel about this whole situation — the pain lingered and yet he was happier than he’d been in ages — and it was all very confusing. But, as sleep caught up with him, John was left with the final thought that, even if things got hard and complicated over the next few days or weeks or months, he would still have Mary with him, and now Sherlock, and with his heart filled with a sudden joy he hadn’t expected to ever feel again, John let his eyes close and went to sleep.


End file.
